


Lockdown#2 - The bubble has burst

by in_a_pickle



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Be careful for what you wish for, Bookshop blues, Happy Ending, Humour, Lockdown#2, Love, M/M, Mature for a bit of swearing, Mess, Not coping, Unemployed, hard times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27473266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_a_pickle/pseuds/in_a_pickle
Summary: The ugly truth, however hard he tried to shove it to the back of his mind, was his newfound freedom was about as exciting as a trolley full of alcohol-free beer and he was demonically depressed. Was it too soon to get overly nostalgic about armageddon?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 9





	Lockdown#2 - The bubble has burst

Crowley snaps his fingers, it's more of a reflex than anything else these days, he should be used to living without miracles by now, but it's a hard habit to break after 6000 years. He curses them all under his breath and pushes open the bookshop door, just like a human, he's never going to get used to it. A gust of cold November wind follows him inside, it stirs the dust in the musty air and rustles through the pages of Aziraphale's precious book collection.

 _They_ had contacted him yesterday, whilst he was at home passing the afternoon trying out being mindful, by watching a YouTube video of a fish tank. Daigon had rippled in to view behind an angelfish and told him to get his arse over to the bookshop, they had something to say, it was in his best interest to be there. He hated how they could still invade his life like this, reminding him that Hell still carried on being utterly irritating without the need of the infamous Anthony J Crowley. Still, here he is, as requested, but to be honest he has nothing better to do.

The doors swing shut behind him, Crowley inclines his head and inhales, his naturally acute senses reading the air, at least they can't take the demon out of him. Through the heavy aroma of paper and old leather, he can smell a few humans inside, browsing among the shelves, the familiar scent of the angel, a fresh mug of cocoa and . . he sniffs again. . . the sinus-clearing slug of raw alcohol. It was overwhelming, worse than the aftermath of one of their week-long benders.

The smell reminded Crowley of that time Aziraphale had returned home from Warsaw with a bottle of Polish vodka, it was so intoxicating Aziraphale wouldn't let him near it in case his infernal energy exploded the entire bottle.

He sniffs around and finds the fumes are coming from the round table by the door, a table that once hosted a selection of biographies of now-disgraced celebrities. Aziraphale had put them there hoping it might deter a few customers from coming in any further. Crowley just got a kick out of watching an ever-increasing pile of souls being secured for his former master.

The selection of quirky-titled books has now been replaced with an array of what could only be described as medical weaponry. A large bottle of hand sanitizer, a box of sterile disposable masks, a spray gun full of pink liquid with a blue cloth tucked under the handle and a large black and white chequered square that has been sellotaped to the table.

Crowley hesitates by the door, he usually calls out, announces his arrival, but today he feels slinking into the shop unseen is a little more fitting. He doesn't want to make a show of himself, he's feeling a little guilty. He is already preempting the concern in Aziraphale's eyes, he knows how his hands will start to worry each other as he searches Crowley's face for answers. ' _Are you well? I haven't seen you for a while, you haven't returned my calls, have I done something wrong?'_

Instead, Crowley loiters idly by the table, he picks up the hand gel and wafts it under his nose, getting a full slap of cheap white rum straight in the face. He winces and puts it back.

Crowley listens in the stillness for the pleasant hum of the angel's lowered voice, but all is quiet, save for the odd page being turned or customer softly clearing their throat.

The angel will soon know he is here, they are too familiar with each other's auras to go undetected for long, but he'll wait, until Aziraphale comes to find him. He moves away from the door, his feet taking him down a long shelf of jumbled books, there's no order to them, Aziraphales likes them this way, there is a system but nothing anyone would recognise. He runs a long finger over the familiar titles, letting himself enjoying the feel of the softly bound leather, Crowley has always found their immutable presence comforting, just like their owner, his angel, Aziraphale.

But that was before it had all started to go wrong, what the hell had happened to make him resent all of this, to turn his back on and hide away from his best friend?

Crowley draws a well-loved book from the shelf and flicks through its pages, they are filled with exquisite illustrations of apples, each variety uniquely identified by a particular shape or pattern on its skin. Crowley gently touches a picture, this symbol of the first temptation has been at the very core of him, if you will forgive the pun, since the beginning. But now it no longer feels part of who he is, not since the Serpent of Eden slithered away from Hell.

He wonders if Aziraphale feels the same, does he also miss Heaven just a little bit? It's such an illogical reaction to be having after nearly losing each other to _them_ more times in one day than he cares to dwell on. It just doesn't make sense.

Crowley closes the book and returns it to the shelf. Aziraphale knows he's here now, he can feel the frisson of their auras meeting, he'll be along in a moment and Crowley will have to smile through the lies and pretend that everything is fine. He searches one last time inside himself for that reassuring buzz, the one that always hums through him when they are together, but he feels nothing.

Which was quite odd when he thought back, as the months that had followed the 'almost end of the world' had been the best he'd ever lived. They had indulged in each other's company in a way they had never been allowed to do before and they became giddy with their freedom. Every day was spent together, and then after a while, they spent the nights together too, every moment became a new celebration of 'our side', new words, new touches, a new desire to show the world they were finally free.

One day it might be a stroll, arm in arm through Trafalgar Square, Aziraphale scolding him for riling up the poor pigeons. Another might find them wrapped up in huge coats drinking champagne on the back seat of an opened-top tourist bus, their mouths shivering delightedly around the cold bubbles. If the spring weather was particularly sunny then Crowley might suggest they drove to the coast and Aziraphale would sit and eat vinegary hot fish and chips off his lap, his legs swinging over the end of the pier.

They had got a second, no third chance at life and they were going to enjoy it while it lasted and Crowley was as surprised as anyone to find it was him, not _them,_ ending things.

Maybe it was a lifetime of ingrained worthlessness that made him doubt this could last forever, maybe there really was too much of a good thing, but as the rainy spring took hold he began to find himself making more excuses not to meet up. Getting his arse off the sofa was becoming too much effort these days. It began with turning down an invite to dinner, then a phone call was allowed to play out on his answerphone. When he could pass the bookshop door without the desire to find the person inside he knew something was wrong with him. It's a bloody miserable business when you're told the world is your oyster to find out you don't even like them.

He'd finally picked up a call from Aziraphale in March when the virus had forced the humans inside and Crowley welcomed the opportunity to take a couple of months to tune out, to have a break from all the shit going round in his brain. Crowley hated not being honest with Aziraphale, he hated the reason why he couldn't wait to curl up with his head under his pillow and hide, he hated most of all not being disappointed when the angel had refused to let them spend lockdown together.

He had crawled out of his bed in July after more than two months of shitty sleep to find a smouldering memo stuck to the fridge, it was direct and to the point.

_Crowley_

_Your file is now closed_

_Don't bite the hand that feeds you_

_Daigon_

_p.s That goes for the traitorous angel too._

He should have expected it, but it didn't stop the words stinging as he read them, they had taken away their powers, he couldn't even snap the damn memo away. Fucking perfect.

The ugly truth, however hard he tried to shove it to the back of his mind, was his newfound freedom was about as exciting as a trolley full of alcohol-free beer and he was demonically depressed. Was it too soon to get overly nostalgic about armageddon?

*****

"Crowley? I thought that had to be you." Aziraphale appears from behind a row of shelves and politely scoots the appropriate distance around a masked customer in the recently popular self-sufficiency section, he was making foolish little noises that suggested that this lifestyle was going to be a breeze.

"How are you, my dear boy?" Aziraphale's welcoming beam was somewhat lost behind his feather patterned mask and Crowley's insides twisted with guilt. He should have known there would be no questions, no worrying frown, just a genuine delight to see him as usual. He pulls his face into its usual smirk, but all he feels inside is a vacuum, an absence of feeling. He feels as enthused as an old dog being asked to go for a walk in the rain.

Still, he refused to drag Aziraphale into his melodrama, although the angel must have known something was wrong as he had totally ignored Crowley's odd behaviour, which was strange as Aziraphale didn't usually demonstrate such sympathetic intuition.

Aziraphale gestures over to the anti-bac arsenal, "Can I please ask you to wear a face-covering whilst you are in this establishment and sanitize your hands on arrival, to keep us all safe."

"I'm fine Angel, what in Someone's name is going on?" Crowley hisses under his breath, slightly relieved at the absurd normality he has walked in to. He snatches a mask from his jeans pocket and loops it over his ears, it's black with a little red snake detail in the corner. "I thought you would use this as a good excuse to close the shop until further notice." He dollops a blob of potent smelling gel on his hands and rubs them together, he now reeks like a cheap cocktail party.

Aziraphale reaches up and touches Crowley lightly on the temple, _'I think it will be easier if we converse like this,'_ the angel says and his voice has bypassed Crowley's ears and is suddenly inside his head. Satan, Aziraphale is inside his head, with all those other thoughts threatening to explode out like an over-packed suitcase. He tries desperately to stop himself from thinking.

 _"Thankfully there's not much in the way of reading or buying going on as most of my customers, being of a certain age, require glasses which regretfully steam up when wearing one of these."_ His eyes twinkle mischievously as he pulls at the elastic around his ears, _"They give up and leave rather quickly after a few minutes."_ He waggles his eyebrows enthusiastically, _"I also tell them that they can't come in unless they put that square thing into their telephone"_ he points to the QR code and lowers his telepathic voice to a whisper, _"which isn't the NHS telephone application but some other application, that's impossible to find, I've had to turn away at least 10 customers today."_

 _"And I suppose the complete lack of mobile or wifi signal in this very specific location is a coincidence entirely?"_ Crowley raises his eyebrows to give his comment a bit more welly.

Aziraphale looks at him angelically and adds no further comment, it was a tried and tested theory that ethereal static plays havoc with mobile networking.

 _"Anyway as we're facing a second lockdown, any day now, call me sentimental but I will miss the humans again if I'm stuck here on my own, so I'm staying open for as long as I can. I can't go through all that again, not being allowed to not sell books quickly loses its appeal. I did get rather bored."_ He casts his eyes towards the empty spaces in the cookery section, the missing copies still piled up in the corner awaiting the manual removal of cake mix and food glitter from their pages.

 _"You didn't have to be on your own,"_ grumbles the demon halfheartedly, _"I said I'd come over."_

 _"Yes, well, you hardly put up a fight when I said no did you?"_ Aziraphale's tone was a matter of fact rather than acerbic _. "Anyway we had to follow the rules, Crowley, it was an_ unprecedented _situation."_

Crowley decided there and then that the person who insisted _that_ word was to be used in every virus-related scenario would have a very, very special place reserved for them in Hell. _"Come on angel, it's not as if we haven't faced a pandemic before, it was the ongoing plot of the entire fourteenth century if you remember. But, look I'm digressing, this is_ not _a social visit,"_ damn it, he could have phrased that a little more delicately, has the angel noticed? Yes, he's definitely noticed.

Crowley tugs at Aziraphale's arm, eyes indicating towards his backroom, talking over his indiscretion as quickly as he can, " _I need to talk to your face properly,_ they've _been in contact with me, they told me to come here, don't tell me you didn't know?"_

"No! They're coming here? Oh my," Aziraphale claps his hands and strides into the centre of the shop, mumbling as best can through his face mask, "I'm afraid I am going to have to close early today, everyone, for cleaning purposes," he picks up the bottle with the pink liquid and gives it a cheerful squirt, voicing pleasantries and goodbyes as he ushers his grumbling customers out on to the street. He pulls the bolts across, turns the sign to closed and politely gestures to Crowley to lead the way through to his backroom.

Crowley rounds the shelf that acts as the back wall to the shop, the gloom, damp and musty smells here used to be particularly nasty so only the most dedicated bibliophile ever ventured this far and never beyond. Now without the power of their miracles, the deterrents are gone and Aziraphale has barricaded it up with encyclopedias to keep the public out of his private quarters.

Crowley stops and looks, nothing prepares him for what lies beyond the hastily stacked low wall of Britannicas. The cosy space they have shared for over two hundred years is usually untidy, but this was in another league of chaos. Aziraphale's desk is littered with old copies of the Celestial Observer, one stack has slipped and cascaded the newspapers all over the floor. There are half a dozen mugs of brown sludge, growing whole new ecosystems of their own, forgotten on window ledges and shelves, one has been knocked over, the liquid solidifying before it can flow on to the rug. There are books open, piled upon one another, spines stretched and cracking, evidence of weeks of half-read stories, each one discarded before another is started.

Crowley's sofa is buried under an assortment of old blankets and cardigans, the shape of them somehow suggesting it had become a retreat, a nest, a sanctuary, somewhere somebody not coping with life could hide away from it all. From the warm scent that still lingers in its folds, Crowley figures this is where Aziraphale was when he opened the bookshop door.

He steps over the blockade and tries to find somewhere to put his feet, the angel follows him over, and turns a lamp on and starts to look around in the mess. Crowley pushes across the blankets and sits down, his hand touches a book, he doesn't even need to read the title, the message in this room is brutally clear, Paradise Lost.

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale, his mask has been tossed into his armchair and he is scrabbling around in an orange carrier bag. He looks unusually unkempt, his white curls are more nutty-university-professor than well-presented-bookshop-owner. Crowley should have returned his calls, checked up on him, he was struggling too and he was having to do it alone.

Aziraphale pulls out a bottle of cheap French wine with an "ah-ha!" and searches through the papers on the coffee table, they slip off and become part of the floor, "I must say having our use of miracles revoked is rather tiresome, I have to go shopping now, and look for things." He picks up one or two Sotheby catalogues and tosses them under the table, "have you seen the corkscrew?"

"I suppose it could have been worse," sighed the demon, removing his mask and stuffing it back in his pocket. "We could be dead."

"You miss it don't you?," said Aziraphale, wandering back from the kitchenette with two washed and wiped glasses. "Demoning, for want of a better word. Whilst you excel in filling your time fruitlessly, my dear, I think there are even limits to your own boredom."

"There are elements I miss," says Crowley a little gloomy, "the thrill of a new temptation, the plotting, the scheming, the secrecy of our old Arrangement. Which brings me to the point of my visit, Hell has been in touch, are you sure Heaven hasn't sent you something?" He hands over the corkscrew that had been projecting painfully from under the cushion on Aziraphale's dusty armchair.

"Oh, I'm not sure," the angel gives a cursory look over the mess of papers and flies, "I'm afraid everything had got rather disorganised." He tugs at the cork and the bottle opens with a pleasing pop, he glugs the red liquid into the glasses, "To be honest with you Crowley, I feel a bit lost, a bit useless now I'm no longer here to officially protect them. Despite some quite awful assignments, Gabriel's less that motivating speeches and being sent to some quite diabolical corners of the world, it was quite an interesting job, mostly."

He drops into his old chair and they sit for a while, an unusual silence falls between them, Crowley tries in vain to think of something memorable he's done lately, to change the mood, but their usual stream of easy conversation has dried up. The office gossip, tales of bungled temptations, plans for clandestine meetings or merely reliving a place they had visited for the other's pleasure used to keep them amused for hours. For once in their very long existence, they have nothing to talk about.

"Maybe they want to give us our old jobs back," Crowley says lamely.

"Give the old wings a shake, dust off the halo, retune my harp," the angel smiles weakly and tries not to sound too enthusiastic.

Crowley sighs and takes a mouthful of wine, he grimaces, "it would improve the supermarket wine for a start. Come on angel, it doesn't look like anyone is going to turn up, let's go out, take a walk, have dinner, see a movie, cheer ourselves up."

Aziraphale looks down at his crumpled trousers and attempts to smooth out some of the creases, his clothes were always immaculate when . . . when . . . he shakes his head, "We need to book ahead for two of those ideas now, no more miracling up free tables or cinema seats any more."

"Well, we can still go for a walk then, it's a free world for another day before they lock us all down again"

"Maybe another time, I'm not really feeling up to it," Aziraphale slouches down in his chair, sighing quietly and picking at several flecks of lint on his trousers. After a stretch of contemplative silence, he looks over at Crowley, who has leaned back on the sofa and is staring upwards, counting the cobwebs on the ceiling.

"Crowley," although his tone is quiet it makes the demon sit up and look at him. Aziraphale wrinkles his face up several times as if to speak, the words arriving then abruptly reversing away from his lips. "Crowley."

"Aziraphale? What in Lucifer's name is the matter?" Crowley genuinely sounds worried now.

Aziraphale looks uncomfortable for a moment then takes a second to compose himself, his mouth working around the words he is obviously reluctant to say. He finally starts to speak.

"Crowley, you are and always will be my dearest friend, but I need to tell you something you may find rather hurtful. I need to get this off my chest, as they say, come clean." He wets his lips with a sip of wine, choosing more words with care.

"When we faced that _horror_ , and despite all odds, we came away with our lives and our freedom, I think we both thought we had finally been given what we wanted. A quiet life together, a side we could trust, and for a while, it was just what I needed.

I have never considered myself to be a creature that seeks excitement, a risk-taker or a daredevil, I have always left that sort of life to you, my dear. But I never thought I'd miss having to look over my shoulder, or miss the constant worry of them finding us out, wondering if this time we'd gone too far." His eyes suddenly brighten, "Do you remember all the excuses we had ready, the early warning systems, complicated wards, disappearing tricks, it was terrifying but . . . fun, in a way.

Now, meeting up whenever we want, being able to sit next to each other on a park bench, holding hands on the beach, it's all wonderful. . . but don't you miss the excitement of trying to hide what we have?

It seems to have all got rather . . . "

"Boring!" yells Crowley leaping up off the sofa in fervent delight, "Yes! Absolutely bloody boring!" He slops his wine all over the couch laughing in relief. His brave, amazing, beautiful angel never fails to find that little extra strength when they both need it most.

"Oh, you know too!" Aziraphale beams, "Yes, my darling, it's all become desperately dull," he laughs, familiar crinkles returning to his eyes, "hideously humdrum, murderously monotonous, totally tedious and FUCKING FUTILE," each word he reels off gets louder and louder as he shouts them out in glee.

"Great pustulent mangled bollocks of boredom," yells Crowley wildly to the heavens, wine raining from his glass and spattering the detritus on the coffee table in huge red drops.

A violent clanging of the shop bell indicates that someone has entered the premises, someone who can walk through a closed sign and a heavily bolted door. Crowley freezes on the sofa and looks across at Aziraphale, his joy and elation abruptly replaced by fear," They're here," Crowley croaks and drops his wine glass on the floor.

The sound of a pair of low heeled shoes, clicking rhythmically but not completely used to being attached to human legs, echo across the wooden floor, sure of their destination, and intent on arriving with purpose.

The angel and the demon naturally gravitate towards each other and they step back until they are both huddled in a corner by the old fireplace. Aziraphale picks up a brass poker as if that would be any protection against -

"Michael," Aziraphale says feebly, "You should have said you were coming. . . "

"I did," The archangel Michael's professional demeanour looks altogether out of place in the topsy-turvy mess of the backroom. She steps neatly over the encyclopedias and gestures with lace-cuffed hand. A gold envelope flies out of the turmoil that once was Aziraphale's desk and lands in her hand.

"Oh", Aziraphale at least had the decency to look vaguely embarrassed." It must have got covered up."

Her cool grey eyes flick over to Crowley who is doing his very best to look very small, she gives a small nod of acknowledgement in his direction, "Demon Crowley." Crowley shrinks away further, the ethereal hum of Michael's grace is making his head ache and his vision is getting a bit blurry. He pushes his glasses further up his nose to try and filter out some of her radiance, his cool has long since slithered away.

Aziraphale grips the useless poker, "What do you want Michael? We asked you all to leave us alone, the earth is yours now, we have no powers to influence the humans either way any more."

Michael looks at them both with an inbuilt air of disdain and enjoys just for a moment, the favourable tip in their power balance. She remains standing, her hands clasped softly in front of her. "I am here in an official capacity, as a representative from the joint board of Heaven and Hell, I come here with an offer of clemency against the crimes you both were tried for."

"I don't recall I had a trial Michael," Aziraphale says a little caustically, reaching back and squeezing Crowley's fingers reassuringly.

"Something you can take up with the board if you wish, but I suggest you don't try and push your luck a second time." She smiles coldly and smoothes some stray hairs back into her neatly coiffured chignon.

"Just tell us what you need to say and leave," Crowley's tone is sharp, he's is starting to brew up a nice fit of outrage, it's like putting on a pair of your favourite shoes.

"Very well," said the archangel, "It has come to our attention that since your positions of protector and corrupter," she gestures to the angel and the demon respectively, somewhat unfairly Crowley thinks, as quite often it was the other way around, "were revoked, the world has descended into turmoil. This virus has changed the way humanity operates and it is having more influence over the human's lives than we are. We both very reluctantly concluded that your responsibilities on Earth kept the world in some sort of equilibrium, now that your influence has gone the world has descended into chaos, a shambles too out of hand for even Hell to enjoy.

"Are you offering to give us our jobs back?" said Crowley, cutting to the chase, wishing he could have been a fly on the wall for that stupid conversation.

"I can tell you that no one else was interested in taking up your vacant positions, we tried to make them as attractive as we could, but no one was interested." Michael smiles insincerely, she would have made an excellent politician.

Aziraphale lowers the poker, Crowley can see his expression has already altered, how the mere thought of regaining his position as Principality has brightened his features, put a tiny spark back into his eyes and it looks good on him.

"With miracles reinstated," Aziraphale says, more of a demand than a question.

"With certain proviso's in place, then yes." The reply is practised, her tone is calm.

Crowley edges out from behind Aziraphale, he doesn't trust Michael, last time they had met at Aziraphale's execution she had simply stood there, in front of him, willing his friend to die quietly. 

A snap of her fingers could easily do the same to him right now.

"Call me sceptical but I know better than to think we'd just get our powers back for free, so what's the rub?"

Crowley and Aziraphale, exchange glances, they both fear the question she could ask, the answer to how they each survived their chosen punishments. Crowley knows they would never give away such a secret and endanger their lives again, even if it did mean buying clothes off the internet and drinking shitty shop wine for eternity.

"Your side must cease to exist and you will revert to reporting to your former bosses, although as a gesture of goodwill you will not be required to report personally to your respective head offices." Michael raises a perfectly arched brow and continues, "In the interests of company security seeing each other will once again be forbidden as will be sharing any inside information. You will agree to meet your quota of temptations or blessings as per your instructions and then and only then will your powers be reinstated. We hope your reinvestment in the Earth's welfare will encourage humans to find a vaccine for this virus so we can once more dictate their lives for them."

Well, that didn't sound so bad.

Aziraphale wrestles his face into something that was the opposite of sheer delight, "We're forbidden to see each other," he looks at Crowley, eyes shining, "No more fraternising?"

"Back to the way it was?" says Crowley, trying so hard not to let the grin take over his scowl, "It's going to be a hard ask Aziraphale, but for the sake of the world, would you be prepared to sacrifice our side in the interests of humanity?"

"For the sake of the world, we must," Aziraphale nods reverently, before stepping forward a little and wagging an index finger at the archangel, "but I'm afraid we are going to have to add one amendment to your conditions," Crowley turns to him frowning, suddenly alarmed he could go and screw up their good fortune in his usual blundering manner.

"The country is on the cusp of another lockdown, it might have already been announced. The humans have been advised to create support bubbles, to help each other, it's all rather lovely." A small smile twitches at the corner of Crowley's mouth, "The demon Crowley and I have already formed a bubble of our own and I'm afraid for the next 4 weeks we have to remain here together. It might be a nice way to say our fond farewells as we are no longer permitted to see each other. With the use of miracles, of course, no questions asked, it's only fair."

Michael surveys Aziraphale's innocent expression with the suspicion it deserves and blows gently on her mobile device, she turns away and relates the revised terms back to the head of the board.

"Very well," she says succinctly, turning back and hanging up, she gestures to them both and their powers return.

"How did you that?" Crowley asks in confusion, "I'm a demon."

"We're all of the same stock, it's all pretty much the same mumbo jumbo." She winks and is gone.

Aziraphale and Crowley throw their arms around each other whooping in delight, this, this is how they are meant to be. Crowley grins like an idiot as a small hum, that could even become a buzz in time begins to flutter again inside him.

"A support bubble with free miracles for a month! You bloody genius," Crowley laughs, holding his dear friend closely, how could he ever have doubted him.

Aziraphale manifests up a bottle of fine champagne and Crowley snaps up two clean glass flutes. They fill them to the brim and clink them together, sinking down onto the sofa together.

"To our new Arrangement," toasts Crowley.

"To our new normal." smiles his angel.


End file.
